The Calm before the Storm
by Onyx
Summary: When Son Goku arrived at the battlefield during the Saiyan battle, he made a very interesting discovery...


(*Author's note – this is a very old story. I posted it on the website of a good friend of mine way back when I was a wannabe fangirl who had just discovered the series. I never brought it here because, whenever someone is gracious enough to host my work, I like to give them a story that is all their own, one that won't be found anywhere else. It's a thankyou gift of sorts, I guess.  
  
Anyway, the reason that it's here now is because she had to close her site. She's left the web, more or less for good, I think. I know that I'll miss both her and her wonderful fanfictions, as will many others – and so this is my goodbye. I won't post her name because I'm not sure that she'd want me to, but this fic is dedicated to her all the same.)  
  
Disclaimer – I do not own any of the characters in this story.  
  
* * *  
  
Son Goku glanced around the tortured expanse of land that had been the site of the battle his friends and allies had been waging against the Saiyans in his absence. A sudden breeze whipped the long, spiked bangs back from his eyes, which were as hot and angry as twin smoldering embers cast fresh from a fire.  
  
"So, Kakarotto, you have decided to join us after all," the shorter invader, the one called Vegeta, drawled mockingly.  
  
The other, an immense, hulking brute with a cruel smirk and crueler chuckle, added his own greeting. "Too bad you're so late; there's hardly anyone to save anymore."  
  
The earth-raised Saiyan ignored the two invaders – he had other concerns at the moment. His heart lifted somewhat when he saw Krillen lying on the ground, obviously hurt, but just as obviously alive. The little monk was grinning broadly at his longtime friend as if to say, "Hey, bud! Looks like we made it through another one, huh?" A few yards away from the prone midget, resting safely on Kintoen, Gohan stared at him wonderingly, dried tears framing his bright, shimmering eyes. I know I felt a large power fade a few seconds before I got here. If it wasn't Gohan... Once more, the warrior surveyed the battlefield as a strange sense descended on him – something was missing, something very important. No familiar, deep voice rose to insult him. No cold eyes narrowed in scorn. There was no scowling, green fighter there, ready for a confrontation. Piccolo. It must have been his power I felt…but where is he?  
  
Goku's troubled gaze again passed over the bodies that lay scattered across the plain. There's Tenshinhan, and there, in the crater...Yamcha. Then he saw it; lying in a massive trench that could have only been created by a ki blast was a crumpled green form, spattered in deep indigo.  
  
With long, deliberate strides, Goku crossed the distance to the crater. Slowly, he knelt beside the motionless body of his enemy. The Saiyan's fingers closed around Piccolo's still-warm wrist, lifting it from the blood- soaked ground, feeling for a pulse.  
  
"He's gone, Dad," Gohan's choked, tearful voice assured.  
  
Indeed, the blood that had once coursed through the wrist Goku held was still, the heart that had once pumped it silent. Son lay his former-rival's hand back down carefully, as if Piccolo were still alive and able to feel such things. Strangely, he was having a hard time believing that his enemy was…dead. Piccolo had been one of the most alive people that he'd ever met; even when he had been standing perfectly still, the Diamao's whole body had thrummed with the tense, suppressed energy of life. It was strange to see him so still, yet without that eternal readiness – surely this could not be Piccolo's body on the ground. As if by a magnet, his eyes were drawn upward; he was looking at his rival's face. He felt a twinge of surprise; he didn't know that face. Although the visage itself was familiar enough, (he had seen it often, both in battle and in his nightmares) the expression that rested on those features was so strange, so different from anything that had been there before, that it was as if Goku were staring down at a complete stranger.  
  
The hard, frigid eyes were closed now as if in sleep. The rigid lines of hatred and bitterness had smoothed, and the heavy brows had relaxed from their typical scowl. The usual, half-mocking smirk was gone as well, replaced by a gentle smile. And…impossible though it was…Son could make out two beads of water trailing from the corners of his eyes. It was as if, for the first time in his life, Piccolo had taken off a mask.  
  
Goku's forehead creased in consternation, his mind groping for an answer like a man in a dark room gropes for a light switch. Twin furrows had been left at Piccolo's feet, almost as if he had tried to block the attack, but that made no sense. Piccolo was no fledgling warrior, he would have been able to see that his best bet would have been to get out of the way. Why would he have tried to block an attack that massive? Are these two Saiyans really that fast…or was there some other reason?  
  
Another gust of wind tore across the plains, sending up little dust devils, tousling Gohan's hair lightly, and bringing to Goku's memory words from another battle...  
  
Look, Goku. There, by the crater...it's your son...  
  
Son suppressed a shudder, looking again at the ground. There, behind the corpse of his former rival, was a single, undamaged patch of earth...unmarred, but for a pair of small footprints…and beside Piccolo's blood-coated face...a faint impression in the blackened earth, as if someone had knelt to...  
  
Gohan, still alive despite his lack of experience, even though the other, more seasoned warriors were gone...  
  
Something in Goku's mind clicked; the elusive light switch was found. For just a moment, he touched his rival's limp, lukewarm hand again. You…you saved him, didn't you? Even though you knew we couldn't wish you back. The hand beneath his fingers didn't twitch, though he half-expected it to. Piccolo simply could not be dead – not now that they might finally have something to talk about. Not after he had survived so many battles before. Not the cold, capable, isolated warrior that Son had spent the better part of his life fighting against.  
  
Not the man who had given his life for Gohan.  
  
Without fully realizing that he was doing so, he willed his enemy to draw a breath. To open his eyes, to sit up, to glare daggers at him, to accuse him of being too trusting. To laugh at him, tell him that no mere energy blast would ever be enough to kill a true warrior, and that he of all people should know that. To live.  
  
The hand that he was touching remained as still as ever; the massive chest did not move.  
  
Only then did he realize how long he had been kneeling there, holding a dead man's hand when there was a battle to be fought. Piccolo would have berated him if he had been alive. With deliberate slowness, he straightened and stepped from the crater, the sickly-sweet odor of blood still strong in his nostrils, the sense of loss in his heart far stronger. The single senzu he had brought with him he split in twain, giving half to each of his remaining allies.  
  
Gohan did not look up at his father, nor did he look at the crater. His gaze lifted only when he felt Goku's hand come to rest on his head. For just a moment, the shroud of anger that had hardened the earth-Saiyan's features lifted. "We'll bring him back, Gohan, I promise you."  
  
The boy's eyes widened. "But how? The Dragonballs are gone."  
  
Goku smiled absently. "Anything's possible, son. I'm more convinced of that now than ever." As quickly as it had gone, Son's anger returned. "Now, I have business to attend to." 


End file.
